Golden Earrings (2 page)

‘
M
on Dieu, Paloma!’ cried Gaby, staring at me with her electric-blue eyes. ‘A ghost?’

I glanced around the rue Mouffetard café, where we sat waiting for our coffee to arrive. The sudden influx of students from the Sorbonne hadn’t disturbed the man next to us from his contemplation of his newspaper and I was glad to see Gaby’s outburst hadn’t either.

‘Incredible!’ she went on. ‘It is fascinating!’ Her face was lit up with curiosity.

I had been worried that Gaby’s studies in law and political science might have turned her into a cynic, and had half-expected her to question my sanity when I related my account of the morning’s otherworldly visitor. As for me, my hands were still shaking and I’d missed my stop on the Métro because I’d been replaying in my mind how the apparition had vanished so suddenly.

‘Who could she be?’ Gaby asked.

‘I have no idea,’ I replied.

‘But what does it mean?’ Gaby ran her hand through her chocolate-brown hair. ‘When a ghost comes, it is supposed to have some unfinished business to conclude — or it has come to give a warning!’

I fingered the earrings in my jacket pocket. I had no doubt that the woman’s spirit had meant to give them specifically to me. But why? I hadn’t told Gaby about the earrings yet; how the laws of nature had been interrupted. I had made up my mind I would only show them to her if she believed my story about the ghost first.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young, lithe waiter weaving his way between the tables with our coffees. We paused in our conversation as he put the cups down. After placing a serviette in front of each of us, he turned to go, but at that moment Gaby looked up. Always beautiful, she was especially ravishing today in her bell-bottomed pinstriped trousers and the floral mini-kimono she was wearing under her open coat. She was also fashionably braless and her small but shapely breasts jiggled along with her bangles each time she moved. The waiter was mesmerised.

‘Would you care for anything else,
mesdemoiselles
?’ he asked. ‘Would a
baguette
or some soup tempt you? A
croquemonsieur
perhaps?’ He addressed us both, out of politeness, but didn’t even glance at me.

‘Oh no, no,’ said Gaby, flashing a vibrant smile. ‘I’m watching my figure.’

The waiter stood there for a moment, opening and closing his mouth. Gaby’s figure was obviously fascinating to him as well.

I leaned back in my chair. I was aching to show Gaby the earrings, but I had learned to be patient whenever a man interrupted our conversation. I often wished I could be like her — so carefree, so charming, so flirtatious. But I couldn’t; where she was a complete extrovert, I was hopelessly trapped in my shell.

The waiter was doing his best to persuade Gaby to meet him after work, but I knew he wouldn’t succeed. She was flirtatious but choosy, and he wasn’t her type. She liked her men sporty. So while Gaby, in her usual charming way, flattered the waiter and at the same time quashed any hopes he entertained for an
afternoon tryst, I looked at my hands and thought about why I was choosing to tell her about the ghost, rather than Mamie.

Making friends was not something I was good at, but I’d known Gaby since we’d met at Mamie’s ballet school, before I was accepted into the School of the Paris Opera Ballet. Gaby had been a promising ballet student too, but then she hit puberty and her love of dance gave way to a keen interest in boys. Sometimes I believed that Gaby sincerely liked my company — she was an excellent listener with that talent of making everyone she talked to feel fascinating. At other times I’d find myself wondering if she only kept up her acquaintance with me in order to practise her Spanish, which she needed to realise her ambition of entering the French diplomatic service. She certainly wasn’t my closest confidante: that was Mamie. But I knew if I told Mamie about the ghost she would think I’d gone insane with all the strain of the past year. And I had to tell someone.

I breathed in the heady air of the café — coffee, wine, garlic, bread and spicy cigarette smoke. These were the smells I associated with the Latin Quarter. I liked to walk around this part of the Left Bank, looking at the markets and bookstalls, and stopping at the record stores to listen to the Rolling Stones and Bryan Ferry. Although many of the streets had been tarred over after the student riots of 1968, the cobblestones of rue Mouffetard were still intact. That’s why I always met Gaby at the café on the corner: the place was steeped in history.

The waiter tenderly dispatched to dream of what might have been, Gaby turned back to me. ‘So tell me more about the ghost,’ she said, taking a sip of her
espresso.

I held her gaze for a moment, my hand near my pocket. Up until now, the ghost had been an interesting mystery, like a premonition come true or an eerily accurate astrological chart. Once I showed Gaby the earrings, the matter would escalate to a different level: we would both be forced to accept the reality
of the apparition; or Gaby would think I was making the whole thing up.

I drew a breath and slipped my fingers into my jacket pocket. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘there is more to this story —’

‘
Bonjour!
’

Another interruption. This time it was Marcel, Gaby’s latest boyfriend. I let the earrings drop back into my pocket.

‘
Bonjour!
’ Gaby replied, returning Marcel’s kisses. I greeted him too, hoping he was just passing by. Despite the incongruity of their appearances — Gaby in her flamboyant clothes and Marcel in his Lacoste shirt and jacket — it seemed that wherever Gaby went these days, Marcel came too. I had been pleasantly surprised to find her waiting for me at the café alone.

‘What’s up?’ asked Marcel, lighting a cigarette and signalling to a waitress to bring him coffee. He leaned back in his chair and my hope of having Gaby to myself faded.

‘Paloma has seen a ghost,’ said Gaby. ‘In her courtyard.’

If Gaby had grabbed the butter knife and plunged it into my stomach, she could not have caused me more pain. This was something I had intended to confide only in her.
Our
secret.

‘Ah,’ said Marcel, blowing out a stream of smoke and flashing me a condescending smile. ‘That’s Paloma’s Spanish blood. All Spaniards believe they are haunted by ghosts. A Spaniard without a ghost is like Paris without the Eiffel Tower: one can’t exist without the other.’

I grimaced. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t know what he was talking about. I was only half-Spanish — my father was …
is
… French. And my ghost was real. Not a figment of my imagination. Besides, the Eiffel Tower had been built in 1889, and Paris had existed long before then. But I said nothing because I didn’t want to upset Gaby.

Despite the besotted way she looked at Marcel, Gaby must have realised he was being insulting. She changed the subject to current events in Spain.

‘Everyone in the lecture this morning was talking about the implications of Franco’s death. They predict Spain will declare a state of emergency, and that the students and workers will protest. Professor Audret thinks Republican supporters who have been imprisoned since the Civil War might be released as an appeasement to the people.’

Marcel smoothed his ash-blond hair. ‘But Juan Carlos has been designated King. The monarchy has been restored and the dictatorship is over, as Franco promised. The Spanish people should be happy now.’

Gaby cast a glance at me. ‘Perhaps they don’t want a monarchy,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps they want what they had before the war: a democracy — like France.’

‘Pfff,’ said Marcel, taking another drag of his cigarette. ‘The Spanish couldn’t handle a democracy … that’s why they had a war. They are not like the French. The Republicans lost the fight because they were divided.’

I held my tongue but inwardly I was fuming. I was used to this sort of condescension by the French. Marcel’s family had a holiday apartment on the Costa Brava: all he knew of Spain was sun and cheap food and labour. I doubted he ever gave a thought to the police interrogations many suffered; the prisoners who were hung upside down by their feet. The Spanish government might tell the foreign press that political ‘enemies’ were treated humanely, but many of them were garrotted. If Mamie were with us, I knew what she would have told Marcel: ‘The Republicans lost the war because the Germans and Italians helped Franco with planes and troops, while the British and French stood by and did nothing.’ But I found Marcel impossible to engage in discussion. Any comment I made elicited that belittling smile of his, and I would rather remain silent than be subjected to it. For someone who was still living with his parents, he had an irritating habit of speaking as if he were a worldly expert on everything. But Gaby didn’t see that. Or if she did, she ignored it.

After ordering and eating a salad
ni
ç
oise
with French fries, and smoking another cigarette, Marcel announced that he had an appointment with his supervisor.

Gaby glanced at her watch. ‘I didn’t realise the time,’ she said, standing up. ‘My next lecture starts in a quarter of an hour.’

Marcel paid for the food and coffees. ‘
Salut
, Paloma!’ he said to me. ‘Beware of any more ghosts.’

That smug smile again; I could have punched him.

Gaby kissed me on both cheeks. ‘We’ll meet again next week,
oui
?’

The moment to show her the earrings had passed. I doubted she would even ask about the ghost when we next met.

I watched Gaby and Marcel walk down the street arm in arm. Unlike Gaby, my experience with boys was nil. Contrary to popular belief, not all the male students at the Ballet School were homosexual, but with all of us pushed to extremes for limited places, nobody was thinking about anything except dance. When you checked out a male at dance school, the only question you were asking yourself was whether he was strong enough to lift you gracefully. I thought about the private lessons I had arranged with Mademoiselle Louvet in order to prepare myself for the next round of auditions. I simply had to get into the Opera Ballet. I was ruined for anything else. A normal life was no longer a possibility for me: I hadn’t had the upbringing for one.

‘Why the long face?’

I turned to see an elderly woman looking at me. Her hair was dyed flame red and her pencilled eyebrows stood out on her heavily powdered complexion. She had spoken with a Spanish accent but she wasn’t anybody I knew.

The woman placed her hand on my arm. ‘You’re young! You’re pretty! You should do something to make you happy. Did you ever think about dance lessons?’

I was too taken aback by the irony to respond as the woman thrust a leaflet into my hand. It was a flyer for a Spanish dance school in Montparnasse: Académie de Flamenco Carmen Rivas.

‘Flamenco lessons?’ I said.

‘
Sí
.’ The woman grinned. ‘Come, you’ll enjoy yourself. Make nice friends.’ She gave me a little wave before heading off down the street.

I made my way towards the Métro station. Character dancing had not been my strength at ballet school, which had surprised my teachers because I was half-Spanish. Perhaps I’d been put off by Mamie’s attitude towards flamenco. I remembered the look of disdain on her face when we had come across a group of street performers on rue de la Huchette. ‘But you’re Spanish!’ I had said to her. ‘I’m
Catalan
,’ she’d corrected me. ‘Flamenco is from Andalusia. Franco forced the image of bullfighting and flamenco dancers on the whole of Spain, but they are not Catalan traditions.’

I was about to toss the leaflet in the nearest street bin when the earrings in my pocket tingled, heating up my skin despite the two layers of clothing between them and my leg. The effect reminded me of when I put Diaghilev, my cockatiel, on my finger and scratched his head. His little feet would heat up with happiness like two hotplates. I looked at the flyer again.
Come, you’ll enjoy yourself … make nice friends.
The beginners’ class was on a night that I didn’t teach at Mamie’s school. I was a devotee of classical ballet, but with the Opera Ballet branching out into more modern choreography, maybe an interest in different forms of dance would look good on my résumé? I tucked the leaflet into my pocket. If I decided to go, I’d have to avoid telling Mamie.

On the way from the Métro stop to our apartment on rue Spontini, I stopped by the newsstand to pick up Mamie’s journals. Micheline, the vendor, was sitting in her domed kiosk
like a bird in a nest, absorbed in a copy of
L’Humanité
and surrounded by postcards, magazines and packets of cigarettes.

‘
Bonjour!
’ I said.

Micheline lifted her gaze from the newspaper and pushed her grey curls behind her ears. ‘Ah,
bonjour
, Paloma,’ she replied, standing up and smoothing down her crocheted vest. She placed Mamie’s copies of
Le Monde
and
Libération
on the counter. ‘I have something for you too today,’ she said, reaching to the shelf behind her. She passed me a copy of
Paris-Match
with Rudolf Nureyev on the cover. ‘When do you start with the Ballet?’ she asked innocently. ‘I want to come and see your first performance. I’ll tell everyone, “I’ve known her since she was a little girl, coming to pick up the newspapers for her grandmother. And here she is now, a star!”’

‘Soon,’ I told her. ‘But remember, I only start with the
corps de ballet
. It will take a lot of work to become a
première danseuse
, let alone an
étoile
.’

I dismissed my qualms about the lie. I hadn’t discussed my failed audition with anyone except Mamie. After my record at the Ballet School, everyone had expected me to breeze through graduation. That I would be accepted as a
quadrille
had been taken for granted by my teachers and fellow students. I hadn’t told Mamie yet about my intention to audition again the following year. Mamie said that as long as Arielle Marineau was the ballet mistress at the Opera, I would not have a chance of being accepted. She had tried to convince me to accept the places I had been offered with companies in New York and London, promising to come with me if I did so, but for me there was only one ballet company. It was the Paris Opera Ballet or nothing.